We’re still here for you, readers!
Sometimes, when you write for a paper like this one, you’ll be sitting in a diner or coffee shop and notice someone at a nearby table thumbing through a copy of that morning’s edition.
For just a moment you feel a connection, wondering what that reader’s reaction might be, but you never ask and the moment passes.
There have been lots of moments like that here over the years.
But one moment remains as fresh as ever, though it stretches back to a Friday evening in 1982, just before Christmas.
It’s a precious memory that’s never faded, reawakened every time a trip along the Expressway passes the spot this paper used to call home.
That old Runyonesque building is gone — we now hang our hats in the bustling Seaport District — but the echoes of what happened on that magical evening can still trigger goosebumps.
It comes to mind this morning because a new Herald ownership is now in the process of setting up shop. Transitions have taken place before, both here and at the Globe. Nothing stays the same forever. We all know that.
But what made that poignant memory so unforgettable was the unmistakable message it delivered.
For days this paper had languished on the precipice of death, having been bled bone-dry by the Hearst Corporation. Deadlines came and went as negotiators for Rupert Murdoch labored around the clock to forge an acceptable deal.
It seemed to be a futile effort until, at 4:50 p.m., when hope was all but lost, negotiators streamed out of the Marriott Long Wharf, pumping their fists to signify an agreement had been reached.
The Herald had climbed off the canvas and was ready to rejoin the fight, as it declared in a large red headline the following morning: “You Bet We’re Alive!”
But before that, in the immediate aftermath of that consummated deal, the people of this town had their say. At first it didn’t seem unusual to hear a horn or a siren; they’re the sounds of a city, and the Expressway passed right by our newsroom window.
But the racket became louder and more sustained as cops let sirens wail, and truckers yanked on air horns, and commuters did whatever they could to swell the joyful noise.
As news of this paper’s survival was breaking over radio airwaves, those drivers were giving voice to those silent readers in coffee shops and diners.
Yes, this is Boston’s paper, as Boston as it gets, and, yes, we’re alive!
It still feels good to say that.